The Sundress: Revisited
by zentaylor
Summary: John gets another visit from that pretty blue sundress.
1. Chapter 1

John's sigh was lost beneath the sounds of the breeze and the sea. He tried very hard to remain irritated as he unpacked their suitcase and spread its contents over the bed, but he could smell the ocean and hear the waves through the open hotel window. The swishing white silk curtains flapped and playfully caressed his cheeks. He sighed more loudly, but it sounded so false that he made himself laugh.

Sherlock appeared from the vast marble bathroom, hands full of complimentary pots and bottles and packets. 'What are you laughing at?'

John attempted to assemble a frown before he turned around to face the consulting detective. 'I'm laughing at how difficult it is to remain annoyed when there are curtains tickling my face.'

Sherlock opened his mouth and tried hard to understand. He soon gave up and held out his full hands instead. 'Look at all the free toiletries, John.'

John surveyed the collection. He was impressed. They wouldn't have to buy shampoo back in London for months. He could try a bit of male grooming. Was that moisturiser? He'd always felt like trying –

'Put those down, Sherlock – no, put them down in the _bathroom_ – and come and look at why I'm trying to be annoyed.'

Sherlock scooped the pile back up from the white windowsill and padded once more onto marble tiles, putting the toiletries on the closed toilet seat before returning to John's side, mumbling, 'I like it in there. It's like a palace.'

Next to him, the good doctor cleared his throat and swept a hand from the half-empty case to the bits and pieces strewn over the hotel's plush bed. 'What's going on here?'

Again Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. He plucked up one of four pairs of sunglasses from the bed and put them on.

'You said you wanted to pack for the holiday, Sherlock. I asked you if you wanted me to help, but you said no. We even made a list together. What happened to the bloody list?'

'I think perhaps maybe I lost it.'

'No, you didn't lose it – I saw you put it on the fridge. I haven't even unpacked the rest yet and I just _know_ that not one thing on the sodding list is going to be in there.'

Sherlock was sitting on the bed now, lining up various objects along their pillows and sticking out his bottom lip. 'I brought lube, John. That was on the list.'

John looked at the seven tubes lined up neatly. 'Seven tubes of it, though? Seven? I can almost follow your thinking on that one, Sherlock, but come on. I wouldn't be bothered about it but you've only brought me_ two items of clothing_.'

Sherlock stayed silent as John grabbed a faded blue and red _Superman_ t-shirt and held it up. 'I don't even wear this, Sherlock. It used to be part of a pyjama set. Have you ever seen me wear this? I didn't even know I still owned it. And a pair of jeans… it's nearly thirty five degrees out there, you silly git. You know I've got loads of shorts; why didn't you pack me some?'

'I forgot about clothes until the last minute and I found those in a drawer,' Sherlock told the duvet.

A particularly enthusiastic breeze suddenly took hold of one of the curtains and wrapped it around John's head. After telling it to fuck off and swatting it away, he again collapsed into giggles, clutching the old t-shirt and looking down at the bizarre array of items his lover had decided to bring with them to the southern coast of Italy for a week. Among them were the skull, the aforementioned four pairs of sunglasses and seven tubes of lube, a jar of honey, a tea cosy, their favourite mugs, six books, Sherlock's dressing gown…

'I don't know whether you're amused or annoyed anymore,' scowled Sherlock.

John caught his breath and shook a smiling head at his lover. 'More the former than the latter, really. You didn't bring any clothes, did you?'

'I've got clothes on now.'

'That's not the point, love.' John approached the case again and started taking out its remaining contents. 'These maps are from the 1800s, my darling. I think Italy might have changed since then. A Bunsen burner? Christ, Sherlock.' There was a shoebox shoved in a corner of the case. 'What's in here?'

John lifted the box out of the suitcase and looked across to Sherlock, who now had one pair of sunglasses on his face, one on the top of his head and one slid into the neck of his shirt. A dark little smile played about his full lips. Expecting something horrific and experiment-related, John prepared himself for a swift retreat and opened the lid.

A froth of spritely cornflower blue linin leapt from its folds and spilled over the sides of the box.

Eyes wide, the doctor dropped the box onto the bed and took a pinch of the dress between his fingers, remembering that hot, sweet afternoon. He hadn't seen the sundress since Sherlock had worn it in the shower after the ice lolly incident, where John had grasped it and bitten at it and tugged it up to his lover's chest while he held him up and fucked him hard against the tiles.

Carefully, reverently, he picked it up. Lifting it to his face to breathe in deeply its scent, his eyes fell closed as his lungs filled with the sweetmusty scent of their shower, their shampoo, their home. Underneath, Sherlock and sex. His cock pressed hard against the seams of his shorts and a groan accompanied his released breath.

When he lowered the dress he spied two things still in the box, tucked together and pristine. Those things were shoes. Shoes the same shade of light, bright cobalt, the colour of bluebells and a saturated sky. Heelless. Platform. At least six inches. Drenched in fabric flowers. They were obscene and excessive and John absolutely loved them. He tore his gaze away from them and found Sherlock's eyes. The sunglasses had vanished and now a knowing, intoxicating stare met his own.

'I packed those first. Everything else seemed superfluous.'

It was John's turn to open and close his mouth. He soon opened it again, though, when Sherlock stood and pressed into it a warm, wet tongue. The doctor became harder, dizzied by imagining the height difference once his detective had on the heels they now both clutched, their hands trapped between their hot bodies. God, he wanted Sherlock so much it hurt. The dress, the shoes, all of it.

Parts of John could remember vividly what his luscious love had looked like in the sundress, all curves and length and highlights and shadows. That arse. The vision, however, was one which had swum and swirled out of focus every time he'd since wanked over the remembrance - he definitely needed reminding.

Sherlock kissed his aroused soldier into sighing and groaning senselessness. John jumped and gasped when he felt a large hand grasp his cock through his shorts, but it disappeared a second later - before he'd had a chance to even thrust into it. He bit at Sherlock's lower lip for teasing. He was bitten back.

Quickly and with only a snarling smile, Sherlock withdrew his tongue and stalked back to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He had the heels and the sundress in his hands.

_To be continued..._

_There were requests from several to revisit 'The Sundress' again, so here are a few chapters revolving around that lovely image. Here is a link to my Tumblr post to view those gorgeous shoes... (x) The inimitable Atlin Merrick must be thanked for her inspiration and support. All the hugs for you._


	2. Chapter 2

John wouldn't touch himself. No, he would not put a hand near his cock. Not one, not two - definitely not two. None at all, in fact. He'd be patient - oh, so very patient. As long as Sherlock was out of that bathroom within the next minute.

His long-limbed creature had been behind a closed door for over half an hour. John had spent ten of those thirty minutes standing frozen and staring at that door, partly in disbelief and partly because he couldn't move due to lack of blood everywhere except his cock.

Now he was sitting on the bed he'd hastily cleared and said cock, so very ready for anything Sherlock asked of him, was begging to be touched. He looked around him at the floor, littered with things he'd swept to the floor with eager, horny hands (apart from the skull, of course – he'd put that on a table). His over-hasty and theatrical bed-clearing technique had seemed fitting twenty minutes ago, when he'd omitted from memory the fact that Sherlock loved dressing up and reflective surfaces, and that he love dressing up _in front of_ reflective surfaces even more. Now that he was sitting twiddling his thumbs, fighting the intense urge to start twiddling his cock, he felt that he'd been rather overdramatic. To start tidying would rather kill the mood, though. So he'd sit there licking and biting and licking and biting and licking his lips and thinking about how hard his cock was.

But he wouldn't touch it. Or he'd die in his attempts not to.

He could faintly hear Sherlock humming to himself – the bubbling baritone bounced from and onto marble. The preening was an exhaustive and meticulous process. He'd be pulling gently on cocoa curls, teasing them into an unruly frame around his face. He'd be adjusting straps and buttons and tugging that brave little dress down, only for the cheeks of his frankly gigantic arse to still be very much visible atop impossible legs. Legs which began in shoes. Those bloody shoes. Those blue flowery high, so very high, blue, flowery, high –

'_Fuck._'

'Stop it, John.'

John was touching his cock. In his blue and flowery reverie John's subconscious had unbuttoned his shorts, yanked down his boxers and wrapped an impatient palm over and around a frankly gigantic erection. The utterance of his own profanity had shocked him into clapping his free palm over his mouth before Sherlock's reprimand had echoed to his ears from marble walls. Immediately John's subconscious unhanded said erection.

The aroused physician tried hard to banish all thoughts of Sherlock's imminence from his mind and inwardly fought against asking him to hurry up. As much discomfort as John was in, he knew the wait would make everything all the sweeter. He pulled his shorts back up and manoeuvred to sit on his wayward hands, staring out of the window to his right, past the swishy silky flapping white curtains and out towards the sea, over views of the town in which they were staying: quaint, dusty and very Italian. The sky was pale blue and the sea was dark blue. A shade that happened to be similar, in fact, to that of –

There was a mirror next the window which held John's unruly attention. From out of the bathroom and into this mirror's reflection Sherlock appeared quite suddenly. John's mouth promptly fell open as though his chin had suddenly acquired a weight of some kind. His eyes stayed fixed on that mirror where Sherlock stared intently at his own reflection.

Long moments eased past whilst Sherlock stood framed in that doorway, and John moved not one inch, save where his cock stiffened and twitched. His subconscious, his preconscious, his auto-, dis-, and interconscious and every other type of made up prefix-prefaced type of consciousness was thoroughly occupied in the simple act of looking. John simply wasn't even conscious at this point – every ounce of him was involved entirely in ogling the hyperbolic intensity of his partner.

In that room, in that doorway, in that mirror stood a man in a short blue dress and heels with flowers on them. This in itself, John would admit, is a vaguely odd and yet somewhat attractive idea. However, when that man is an angel naturally endowed with and embodying _excess_, as in, excess of Jay Gatsby proportions, then everything shifts and becomes a bit surreal, a bit beyond all realms of previously conceived ideas of beauty and, for John, arousal.

Whilst the seconds trickled past and the breeze blew the curtains and two hearts thumped, Sherlock stood like a god whilst John took his time basking in the vision.

Large palms and long fingers grasped the edges of the doorframe of the bathroom. Sherlock's arms were long, too, pale and bulging at the bicep and bent at the elbow, with the thin straps of the dress stretching taut across shoulders and collarbone. A perfect halo of dark hair and sunlight from the bathroom's windows lit the detective up against his backdrop. John was both confused and enraptured by the contrast between different parts of his lover's body: physically, in terms of form and musculature, some of him was undeniably masculine and some of him was softer with luxurious, serpentine curves. His pose within that open rectangle confounded everything; he was simply too beautiful.

He filled the space almost entirely with both angles and curves. The bodice of the sundress was tight across Sherlock's broad chest and narrow waist, where it became flowing and light and caught in the breeze. Through the thin linen John could see the silhouette of him, see how he stood so that his hips curved impossibly, shifting his weight to create a sinuous, curving S from ribcage to waist to hip and arse to thigh. John followed this unlikely meandering with hungry eyes and fell to the perusal of his lover's legs, made longer and more intensely muscular with the absurd heels. John began to feel almost lightheaded with panting and needing as Sherlock turned sideways those heels, making their bountiful petals shiver, and proceeded to use his own reflection to turn himself on.

Can you pole dance with one side of a doorframe? Apparently you can if you're Sherlock Holmes, convincingly so. For minutes, hours, days, perhaps (John's sense of time had gone offline along with his consciousness), Sherlock got very pole-y and dance-y and intimate with that long piece of wood, all the while watching himself. He stared into his own eyes in that mirror and seduced himself, aroused himself. Arched that spine impossibly and slid down, revealing that sumptuous arse and grinding it against the frame. Turned around, straddled said frame, and repeated the action so that his cock got some attention, too. He looked like a large cat, like a jaguar, with that spine and those limbs and those eyes. Like a cat he began to purr as he rubbed and pressed and squirmed and danced. All the while his erection grew until the little blue dress was tented prettily in the centre.

Sherlock finally struck a pose with his legs crossed, arms splayed and with his gorgeous rear-end presented towards his lover. With a pout he tore his gaze from himself and caught John's in the mirror. That was it.

With a grunt of effort the soldier pushed himself to his feet and all but flung himself towards the detective, his hands hovering for one, two, three seconds before sinking them into the soft and creamy cheeks of Sherlock's cushion-like bottom. He slid his hands under the sundress' plucky hem to grasp a narrow waist before gliding them over broad hips and back around softness which just begged to be kneaded, caressed and squeezed. He spread apart Sherlock's more-than-double handful and pressed his erection into the space he'd created. It was a glorious sight: a hard-on straining desperately against its unfastened denim confines pressed deep between spread globes.

The moan uttered by Sherlock as his pretty little rosebud was stroked by rough denim forced John to his knees, where he found he was in a good position to admire the heels, those oh-so-blue-beauties. Unhanding Sherlock's arse with a squeeze, John bent down and tongued Sherlock's ankle, nipping at straps and lapping at exposed toes and flesh. The pretty man in the pretty dress hissed and wrapped a hand around his cock, taking a handful of linen in his grasp and rutting into the fabric, which felt quite fabulous.

As much as he enjoyed the wriggling of his lover's feet, John missed the arse. He always missed the arse. He rose back into his knees, his mouth inches from the erection cradled in Sherlock's fist, which had already marked the linen wrapped around it with a dark stain of precome. He placed a hot mouth over the fabric, breathing into it and pressing his tongue hard against the underside of Sherlock's cock. For long moments he held it there, waiting for his saliva to creep though the material, feeling the heat of his lover and tasting him, letting him thrust between eager lips.

'John. _Christ_… John,' Sherlock groaned, hissing again and supporting himself on the door frame. Taking the hint, John removed his mouth from the equation and placed his hands back on endless legs. Running those hands up and down rippling muscles, John stared with cobalt eyes right up into Sherlock's, which were currently sundress-blue.

John licked his lips, left that tongue out and squirming for a brief moment. He lowered his voice and uttered an order to his pretty sweetheart.

'Turn around.'


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock turned around more quickly than he should have been able to whilst teetering on tip-toe in six-inch heelless heels. Looking up at his prize, accented by the ghosting touch of blue linen, John recited every swearword he could think of and made some up when he ran out.

Because the already-tall detective was now six inches taller, John knew he'd have to stretch a bit and crane his neck to get access to what he wanted. He also knew that this meant that he'd be almost directly underneath Sherlock if he got into the correct position and Sherlock spread his thighs widely enough, which would lead to endless possibilities in the tonguing department.

So Sherlock placed his pretty feet wide apart, grabbed his doorframe hard and bent forwards, offering up his body. John replaced reverent palms on soft pale cheeks and shuffled until not only was he in the optimum rimming position, but could also lavish attention on Sherlock's balls and the base of his fine cock, should he wish, and wish he emphatically did.

At this point there was a pause, as often there is – a moment like the steaming of breath on cold glass, a moment during which two individuals bathed in the light of the glorious life that had them joined so perfectly. Sherlock and John breathed for a few seconds before the latter sunk fingertips into the flesh of the former, stretched up on his knees, pursed his lips gently. Planted a soft, reverent kiss to the underside of his lover's arse cheek. _I adore you._

'John,' came Sherlock's dusken whisper. _And I you. _

Between kiss-shaped lips a tongue pressed gently: eager, undulating and wet. It left suncatching trails on high dunes and low curves, every soft space of Sherlock's from hip to thigh was caressed and lightly pressed. Teasing, John took teethfuls and bit down, prompting sighs and groans and leaving marks which he soothed and lathed.

When he owned all of Sherlock's full rump, his tongue and teeth having touched every pliant inch, he turned his attention to its cleft. With steady hands he held and spread flesh, exposing to his senses and the soft breeze all of the exquisite sensitivity of his detective. Sherlock shivered as cool air touched his pink little hole. John shivered with him upon viewing its instinctive tightening, quivering. With lips again pursed, John leant forwards, upwards, and placed another loving kiss to this most delicate and delicious part of his delicate and delicious love.

Then finally, _finally_, sweeps of his tongue brought Sherlock to hissing, to keening, to hushed swearing. John felt beneath his hands the muscles of Sherlock's legs buck and quiver as he tasted and caressed his hole, his perineum and the downsoft skin around his balls. To tonguefuck Sherlock was pleasure most perfect. Every one of John's senses was rewarded until he was swimming in a haze of sensuality, of arousal.

The good doctor began slow upward strokes from Sherlock's balls to beyond his hole and hummed happy responses to the noises which greeted him. Sometimes his tongue was relaxed and softly wetly squirming, like water; othertimes it was featherlike and quick. Now entirely he tensed it, forming a little tool with which to plunder the now slippery hole of the panting object of his affections.

'_Ffff-fuck_… John, John, John…'

Sherlock's entire body tensed and tremored around the thrusting of John's tongue. John knew what the detective was attempting to say - he himself felt near completion as he bucked his hips to press his raging erection against its confines. Before relenting he moved quickly to suck on Sherlock's balls, drawn tight and hard against the base of his cock, and took them into his hot mouth.

'_J-John!'_

Taking the hint and sitting back on his heels, John paused to catch his breath. He peered down at himself and saw, like a mirror of Sherlock's dress, a large patch of precome spreading lustily through the layers of his underwear and shorts. Like these shorts, John was thoroughly undone, undone by the sound of broken roughened moans, by the feel of tight flesh growing wet and pliant under his tongue, by the thick perfume of sex and desire and by the sight of such a beautiful form trembling beneath his ministrations. He was undone most by the taste of Sherlock. It was a taste so darkly sweet and sweetly dark, so earthy, that it made his mouth water and filled up his being.

Sherlock shook minutely, his head pressed against a hand which grasped the doorframe. Patches of the sundress had been coloured cobalt by sweat. All of his arse was spit-slicked and shining, the cheeks flushed and reddened by the grip of fervent hands. John stroked a set of calming fingers down Sherlock's calf and, with difficulty, stood.

Wishing to kiss his face and mouth, John touched Sherlock between the damp blades of his shoulders and offered him a hand to hold. Sherlock took a breath along with that hand and stood straight, turning slowly, carefully to face his doctor. With a sigh, John reached to Sherlock's neck and pulled him down into a kiss, gentle and languid. Their lips were sweatmoist, salty. Sherlock looked utterly debauched; hungry, desperate eyes spoke the volumes behind his breath across John's lips.

'Please.'

After one last kiss to each of Sherlock's rosy cheekbones, John stood back and finally allowed his aching, heavy cock freedom from its restraints. Stepping out of denim and boxers, he helped his long love out of the gorgeous blue dress which stretched with the rhythm of his panting. He lifted it over his hips, chest and outstretched arms and kissed each newly naked part before leading Sherlock to the bed.

'Sit down, my love.'

Sherlock sat, mesmerised by the gentleness of John's voice and the dark, heady gaze which mirrored his own. He observed the state of both their erections, for both men were giddy with the need to come, and John knelt before him to unfasten the shoes with the cascades of blue shuddering petals. John bestowed more kisses upon Sherlock's exposed feet, his ankles, calves and thighs before joining him on their bed.

White curtains fluttered.

Trembling with the effort of being slow, of prolonging their joy, of not leaping on one another, John and Sherlock turned and lay down. They fit together perfectly as they had from the first time they'd seen each other like this, naked and wanting. A hand found a hip, another hand a neck, a cheek. Minutes of languid caresses melted and dulled the edges of their shared desperation.

Above the coastline seagulls cried as one man climbed to sit between the open legs of the other. Into soft sheets John pushed softer skin.


	4. Chapter 4

'I wonder what I ever did to deserve an angel like you.'

'Mmm?' Sherlock blinked a few times, looking up at John with eyes dazed and lashes lowered.

'You, Sherlock.' John grasped Sherlock's knees, stroked them. 'No one on earth has ever been more beautiful, more perfect than you. You looked like a bloody dream in that dress and those shoes, you really did. You look like a bloody dream now, actually.'

Sherlock grinned crookedly at his lover, letting that soft voice had calm him to the point that he wasn't about to pass out from lack of air and frustration. He found John's lips with his own and their smiles met; one man groaned when he felt the other's tongue. When they broke for air, the detective said, 'I was hoping that they'd inspire this effect.'

'You didn't hope – you _knew_.' John ran his hands gently down from knees to the insides of long thighs, smiling.

Sherlock frowned, crinkling his nose. 'You're thinking. Are you thinking? What are you thinking?'

'Ah,' John laughed gently, 'now that would be telling, sweetheart.' He lay down on his front, lowering himself between his detective's splayed knees so that his face settled above a proud and dripping cock.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows to scowl down at his soldier. 'I demand that you tell me.'

'As I see it,' purred John, breathing warm breaths over engorged flesh, 'you're in no position to demand anything.'

'But I want to know what you're – ah!'

John hum-laughed around a mouthful of Sherlock. He opened up his throat, breathing hard through his nose and took his cock deep - almost down to the base. Another slow breath and he was there, tongue quickly swiping his balls, just in time for Sherlock to look down and see him: red lips stretched, dark eyes watering. As the pair locked gazes Sherlock emitted a low, whining gasp and watched John swallow hard around him; when he was freed from the hot, delicious confines of that throat he let his hips buck, thrusting the head of his erection against John's eager tongue. The tip and sides of that tongue flicked and swirled and Sherlock let the wet, hot silkiness take him over until his knuckles were white even against his pale skin as he clutched the duvet.

Both men had been flirting with the very edge of oblivion for some time now - they knew that a few more hard sucks or swipes of tongue would see John's mouth filled with come. They also knew that John was enjoying a little too much the feel of heavy cotton sheets beneath his hips, and that continued thrusting would see them thoroughly stained.

'John… mmm, uh – _John_ – stop, stop, stop.'

Reluctantly the soldier's mouth slowed and he freed Sherlock's cock wetly. He blew onto it. Sherlock's groans thundered around the room and goosebumps flew across a curving torso and set of long, quivering limbs. For the third time John and Sherlock wordlessly called a truce; stopped, panted, collected themselves. Stepped hand in hand once again a few paces away from the brink.

John shuffled up the bed to lay once more next to the consulting detective, hissing when his cock accidentally rubbed up against Sherlock's thigh in the process. Very occasionally they'd have sex like this – if they had a few hours to while away, they'd stretch out their enjoyment, drive each other and themselves mad with need for as long as they could, until one or both of them lost control. It was usually both. They'd found that a very particular type of pleasure could be achieved through the repetition of denial, of teasing, and that a few rounds of stopping _just before _muscles tensed and senses swam could make their relief and desperation ramp up the bone-shattering intensity of their orgasms.

The detective and the doctor lay panting with their heads propped up on plump pillows. Sherlock absent-mindedly trailed a hand gently in trails up and down his own breastbone and looked from his erection to John's and back again.

He loved to play this game. He loved to know that he had time to observe, to look at them both, to compare the colours of their skin, their proportions, to watch them naked and breathing. He loved to revel in their beauty, collectively and separately – so different and yet so much the very same. To see their desire for each displayed so simply was joyous. Sherlock glowed with the knowledge that John was watching him admire them together, hands laced, on this bed and far away from everything – two angels, one bronze and one pale. The beauty of them, the rightness.

'I'm very glad we decided to come on holiday, John.'

'You mean you're very glad _I_ decided to pretty much forcibly drag you to the airport and onto the plane.'

That earned John an eye roll. 'Well, yes, if you're going to be pedantic about it,' Sherlock huffed, lifting an arm to make graceful shadows on the sunsplashed wall with his hand.

'It's not pedantry, love. I'm pleased you recognise now that some time away will do us good.' John wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and felt his breathing rate slow somewhat. 'Do you feel more relaxed?'

Sherlock turned his head sharply to look at John, raising an eyebrow and smirking down at their flushed groins. 'Now? Right this very minute? Not so much.' He chuckled deeply and added, 'Do you?'

John laughed too and Sherlock mentally catalogued the bubbling little giggle. 'OK, all right, perhaps _relaxed_ was the wrong word – I feel good, very good. Do you feel good?'

'Yes, I feel good too,' replied Sherlock.

'Good. I'm glad you feel good. That's good.'

'We need a new word now.'

'I agree,' John took a deep breath and stretched himself out on the bed, sighing contentedly. 'I do feel relaxed actually, on some level. On a higher level. A level that's not throbbing and aching and making me want to jump on you and – and pin you down, and – and – _ooh…_'

'John.'

The doctor stopped licking his lips and looked down. He unhanded himself. 'Sorry. What was I saying?'

'You were describing how very relaxed you are,' Sherlock replied mockingly, reaching to place a kiss on John's temple.

'Well,' John smiled, grabbing one of the fluttery, mental curtains and holding it away from the window so that they could see the sky's gradient, 'parts of me are. The rational parts of me that know we've got a ten days of this – nothing to do, nowhere to be, just us.'

'I'm beginning to see the appeal of that, I must confess,' mused Sherlock, looking out into the blue. 'As you said, no pressing cases, and London will still be there when we get back. She'll miss us though, won't she?'

'London? Yeah, of course she will.' John turned to the detective, reaching to run fingers through tousled curls. 'I love that you refer to her as, well, a her.'

'She's always been more than a city to me, John. So much more.'

A gentle silence fell. John and Sherlock heard the seagulls again. Dark eyes found light ones and soft shadows chased the sunlight on their bodies. Sherlock's voice rumbled. 'Now?'

'Yeah. Yeah, now is good.'

There was some more shuffling whilst positions were established. John was hanging off the edge of the bed in attempts to reach one of the many tubes of lube which had found its way to the floor when the voice rumbled again.

'I'd like to feel your fingers, John.'

Grabbing the lube and kneeling up in front of Sherlock's spread legs, John grinned and coated said fingers. 'I'm sure that can be arranged.'

With a pretty flush rising once more on his cheeks, Sherlock leant forwards into John's offered kiss before settling down and arranging his wanton thighs to allow full access to his arse, still slick with saliva.

When a warm, slippery finger inquisitively pressed at an opening, John held his breath. Sherlock expelled his with a sharp sigh. This was one of John's favourite ways to pleasure Sherlock – to use his clever physicians fingers to open him up, to stroke and to stretch. John could get off very quickly indeed on the vocality of his consulting detective, and it was during sessions of fingering that Sherlock's sounds would quickly become loud, obscene. So it was with indulgent moans that John sunk slowly one and then two fingers down to the second knuckle, answering Sherlock's needy gasps and cries.

He kept those digits straight, thrusting evenly and deeply into the rings of Sherlock's muscle, watching himself slowly sink in again and again and again. Gradually the tightness faded and the slight resistance gave way to a pulling, soft yet strong, yielding and welcoming and hot.

'Sh… Sher – Sherlock.' John detected a hint of blood on his lip from where he'd bitten down. 'More?'

Sherlock pushed himself down hard on John's fingers and moaned, growled. 'Mmm – _oh,_ yes… God, _yes_.'

He pressed two fingers in once more, curving them upward slightly and causing Sherlock's hips to jerk. He withdrew them and then added a third, a fourth, opening his mouth when he felt the stretch, swearing when he saw and felt Sherlock's hands move to grasp the cheeks of his own backside to spread them wider.

One of Sherlock's twitching calves was resting on John's back and he could feel their sweat prickling and pooling. He had a glorious burning in his forearm and bicep, which flexed as he worked his fingers into Sherlock – massaging and pressing and twisting before pushing in deeper, seeking for the little cluster of nerves which he knew would make his flushed love come.

Quickly he found it. Sherlock swore. The sounds were animalistic now, high and rasping and endless. Sherlock freed his hands from the grip on his arse cheeks and clutched at his own hair, running them over his face before slamming them back down to grasp and pull at the duvet. John could hear fragments of his name, increasing in volume – a warning. He slowed his hand, pulled back, not wanting to stop.

'It's your call, Sherlock,' he grunted.

The growled reply was immediate: '_Make me come._'

Grinning wildly and giving Sherlock's nearby knee a swift bite and lick, John redoubled his efforts, finding Sherlock's prostate again and staying there. He moved around and around it with a finger before stroking it directly once, twice, three times before every part of Sherlock's body became tense, before John's hand was trapped in a ring of shuddering muscle. There was a heartbeat or two of stillness, of silence before Sherlock gasped as though he needed all the air in the world, before he arched his back and trembled and his cock began to shoot long streaks of come up onto his chest.

'Mmm, yes, Sherlock, yes –' John was murmuring. Whilst Sherlock's cock still jerked and his muscles continued to twitch, John pulled out his fingers and knelt, lifting up the detective's hips by hooking his arms under his knees and shoved his cock hard into the tight warmth.

John managed six, perhaps seven frantic skin-slapping thrusts before he was coming so hard that he ached with the joy of it. The harsh waves of warmth pulsed through him, filling up his ears and making his toes curl; it was with a wordless roar that he filled Sherlock, held him hard. He had the vision of his lover's flushed face, creased with pleasure, seared onto the back of his eyelids – this he saw whilst his skin prickled with perfect ecstasy.

Finally stilling on shuddering knees, John pulled out of Sherlock carefully and, gulping for breath, collapsed unceremoniously on top of him and sought his mouth. The detective was still making noises, still groaning and panting as he kissed John fiercely, his hands roaming and clasping before he became gentler, peaceful and boneless. They broke apart and lay breathing hard.

'Jesus,' managed John after some minutes during which he may or may not have fallen asleep. 'Jesus absolute motherfucking unholy Christ.'

'Mmm? What did you say?' Sherlock's voice was sleepy and hoarse.

'I said "Jesus" and a lot of other words.'

'Why?'

'… I don't know. They just seemed fitting.' John opened his eyes and looked across to where Sherlock lay sprawled with one arm slung over his face. 'You OK?'

'I think I'm dead.'

John chuckled and reached over to lift up Sherlock's arm so that he could kiss his cheek. He saw a smirk bloom across Sherlock's features before he, too, opened his eyes. The detective propped himself up on an elbow and wiped two fingers through the come cooling on his chest and stomach.

'I think,' he began, popping the fingers into his mouth ponderously, 'that I'm going to like holidays.'

Eyes wide, John watched Sherlock repeat the action of swiping and sucking. 'You just wait, love. This one's only just started.'


End file.
